


The Odd Man With a Cane

by JanecShannon



Series: Kettle!Verse [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Gen, Gossip, Post Reichenbach, Protective!Mycroft, Suicidal Thoughts, We're not a couple!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2012-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-11 10:28:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JanecShannon/pseuds/JanecShannon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months after The Fall, John returns to St. Barts for the first time. This sudden change of routine with no explanation puts everyone (read Big Brother Mycroft) on edge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Gossipy Nurses

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so I'm putting a trigger warning on this for suicidal thoughts, but I think that's just me being over-cautious. It's barely mentioned and even then it's pretty much just implied. 
> 
> But I would rather be over-cautious than trigger someone because I wasn't cautious enough.

“Oi... Cindy?” Jenna called from the window hesitantly. She turned her head but kept her eyes on the man standing across the street. The other nurse raised her head from the computer at the nurse’s station to look at her questioningly. “He’s back again,” Jenna explained.

Cindy’s focus shifted as she rose to her feet. As she walked to stand by her co-worker, the redhead’s eyes studied the strange man leaning lightly on a hospital issued cane. “He looks even worse than last time. How long has he been there?”

“I dunno. I just noticed him,” Jenna answered with a small shake of her head. “He’s soaked through though, so he must have been standing there a while.”

Cindy clicked her tongue with disapproval. “He’ll catch his death if he stands out there much longer. It’s bloody December.”

“Do you think we should call someone?” The young blonde wondered, but Cindy shook her head.

“Who would we call?" she asked sadly and turned back to her computer. When Jenna didn’t follow her away from the window she added, “Leave him alone, Jenna. Maybe he’s just waiting for a friend to get off work or something.”

Word spread quickly among the hospital staff, wondering if anyone knew who the odd man with the cane was waiting for. But when no one claimed him, other suggestions when around. Maybe the one he was waiting for was sick? Maybe they’d already died? Hey, do you think he knew that guy that jumped off the roof a few months ago?

Eventually, the odd man with the cane became the long lost love of Annie Brown, one of their cancer patients who’d died alone with only the tiny hope that by some miracle that boy who worked her father’s fields all those years ago when she was sixteen would find his way to her bedside. 

He was clearly mourning the loss of the love of his life, some tragic tale of woe keeping him from her bedside until it was too late. 

They’d sigh sadly every time he came back. Annie Brown would have been a lucky woman if the cancer hadn’t taken her. It's true what they say: All the best ones are either taken or gay. 

And the odd man with a cane was obviously taken by a dead woman. 

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

It wasn’t hard to pick up the sound of approaching footsteps behind him, most people were rushing to get out of the cold and the almost-snow rain, but this person came up to him slowly, purposefully. He recognised the gait as that of Mycroft and assumed the clicking heels to be that of the ever-present Anthea. 

“Should I be having you watched more closely, Dr. Watson?” Mycroft asked as he came to stand next to the man. John did nothing to acknowledge his presence, just continued to stare at the ledge Sherlock had stood on six months before. John debated, for several long minutes, whether he was going to answer. He had... well, not quite _forgiven_ but, more of, _come to an understanding_ with Mycroft over the last six months. 

“I’m not planning on jumping,” John finally answered flatly. 

“No,” Mycroft responded, dragging the word out, “Jumping isn’t really your style.”

John gave a humorless snort. "I wasn't aware that I _had_ a style. What’s that, then?”

“I'd imagine the Browning L9A1 tucked into the small of your back beneath your coat.”

That finally drew the doctor’s attention to him, though Mycroft was now steadfastly examining his umbrella with pointed disinterest. “Right, should've known you’d know about that,” he answered with a single nod, eyeing the other man carefully before the ledge far above them once more drew his attention. “I've been shot enough times for one lifetime, Mycroft. I’m not planning on adding another.”

“That is reassuring,” Mycroft answered, though by his tone you’d have thought he was merely commenting on the weather. _Cold weather we’re having, isn’t it? Oh, you aren’t planning on shooting yourself in the head? Well, that’s nice. Do you think it will snow?_ John had to fight the urge to smirk at the thought. Mycroft would never engage in such pointless conversation as _that_. 

You might not know or understand it, but there was always a point to his conversations. 

“You have dodged the question twice now, Dr. Watson. I would appreciate a straight answer this time. I do so hate to repeat myself. _Should I be having you watched more carefully?_ ” 

John gave him a mild glare, “I’m not going to jump, shoot myself, concoct some deadly poison from the leftover chemicals in the flat, overdose on Sherlock’s secret stash, jump in front of a bus or just outright commit suicide.” His look became one of _There, are you happy?_ before it morphed into a thoughtful frown. “Why on earth would you think I would?”

Mycroft decided to skip over the rather obvious reply that based on the number of options he was able to come up with off the top of his head, even subconsciously, the doctor had clearly put some thought into it. Instead replying with, “This will be your first Christmas since my little brother’s death as well as your first alone since your return from war. It is hardly unprecedented this time of year, especially after the death of a loved one.”

“Not you too,” John groaned and rubbed his hand down his face with irritation. “I’m not _gay_. We weren’t a _couple._ ”

“Of course, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft replied pleasantly, in a tone that was just a little _too_ agreeable. “I do have a wonder, if you would be so kind as to indulge me.”

“If I say no, will you leave me alone?” John asked, despite knowing the answer. 

Mycroft gave an amused hum (the kind an uncle might give a toddler who adamantly refused to believe the sky was blue) then continued as though the doctor hadn’t spoken, “You have steadfastly avoided this entire street whenever possible for nearly six months, yet this week alone you have been back here three times for hours on end. I understand why you would avoid it and know that you would eventually feel the need to return but I am curious as to what has caused the change.”

“Can’t I just be moving on?” John asked with, admittedly, too much sarcasm in his voice for him to claim that was actually the case. 

“Of course but we both know that isn’t it. There is also the Browning to consider: you started carrying the gun around the time you started returning here. Something has changed and I need to know what,” Mycroft told him with narrowed eyes. 

“I’ve been carrying the Browning because I realized I was being followed,” John answered curtly. 

“That is hardly a new development. You’ve given me your opinion on the matter several times quite clearly.”

“It’s not one of your people,” the doctor told him surely, keeping his eyes on the high ledge. 

“My people are wide and varied, Dr. Watson. I doubt you would be able to identify even a small percentage of them.” 

“Its not one of yours, Mycroft,” John repeated, turning and beginning to walk away from the older man. He turned his head and casually threw over his shoulder, “Your people don’t watch me through the scope of a gun.”

Mycroft’s eyes shot wide as his head snapped to the direction the doctor was walking. The quiet typing from the woman behind him (who was currently going by Helen, not Anthea) quickened as she tried to determine how this had not been reported to them. It was subtle but he knew her well enough to detect the slightly frantic edge. “Doctor Watson!”

But John just kept walking, leaning on the cane as little as he could as he limped away and raising one hand in a vague gesture of farewell.


	2. The Friendly Sniper

Mycroft sat in a room filled with a dozen monitors flashing black and white CCTV recordings. In front of each screen but Mycroft's own sat two people. The entire surveillance and protection team he’d had following Dr. Watson had volunteered along with a surprisingly large number of other people. 

Later, Mycroft would concern himself with how they all had even _heard_ of the situation. 

Much later, he would look into why Captain Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, who was trained as a doctor first and a soldier second, had managed to spot a rogue gunman without any of Mycroft’s men even realizing the gunman was there.

Next Tuesday, he’d planned a rather lengthy kidnapping session for the doctor where they would discuss his rather flippant dismissal of imminent danger and his utter disregard for his own life. He would be including Mrs. Hudson, she’d always seemed to have some kind of hold over Sherlock and his doctor, perhaps her worry would rub off on him somehow. He ought to include Greg Lestrade as well, come to think of it. He briefly considered kidnapping Harriet Watson to be included in their little discussion, but decided that was more likely detract from the point he was trying to make. 

First, though, first they had to actually _find_ the gunman, determine the threat level, and neutralize it if necessary. It was a matter of professional pride as well as a personal obligation to his late brother.

“Stop!” came a call from behind him, he didn’t take his eyes off his own screen though. They’d had many false positives since they started the afternoon before. “Something has him concerned. Across the street, just above eye-level. Do we have anything of that?”

There was a pause filled with typing from the back of the room where his assistant sat with three monitors in front of her. Seconds later their monitor was populated with the street from several angles. 

“Nevermind, there’s a domestic going on some stairs. He looks like he’s debating whether to interfere.”

“Is that the one from last month?” One of the surveillance men, Aled, called from three monitors down without taking his eyes off his own screen. 

“Ohh, I remember that one,” Kathy the transcriber answered. “John’s been fuming over it for weeks.”

“You’re not on surveillance. How’d you hear about it?” Aled called back.

“He gives Sherlock an update on the case ever week, of course.” It went unsaid that when Kathy said _Sherlock_ she actually meant _Sherlock’s Grave_. It didn’t need to be said. That was how John always referred to it so that was how they did. 

“We’ve got something!” Ellen from Human Resources called from monitor five. “Last Thursday at 8:00. He keeps looking out the window to the house across Baker Street.”

“Wait about five minutes,” Mary answered from monitor two. “He’ll start making a thermos of tea and take it over to Marshall.”

“That man knows how to make a _fine_ cuppa, let me tell you,” Marshall added. A chorus of agreements went around from all the surveillance team. It was John Watson’s subtle way of letting them know he’d spotted them. It had become a bit of a game for them all. If, by the end of the night, John hadn’t spotted them, he left the thermos on the doorstep with a plate of biscuits. 

They didn’t get the biscuits if he found them first. 

“Never mind, Anthea. Mary's right, he’s just pulled out a thermos.”

“My name isn’t actually Anthea. You all _know_ this,” Anthea told them flatly as her typing made sure every one of the thirteen other monitors in the room had a constant feed of video.

“What? And you think my mother was really mean enough to name me Rupert Richard Robert?” Rupert asked from the monitor directly next to her. 

“Your name _is_ Rupert Richard Robert. I’ve seen the birth certificate,” Anthea deadpanned but Rupert wasn’t phased. He just turned to give her a cheeky grin. 

“If ‘Anthea’ is good enough for dear ol’ John, it’s good enough for us.”

“Eyes on your monitor, Mr. Robert,” she answered blandly. He muttered under his breath but turned his chair back to the black and white screen. 

“That was a gun barrel,” Elliot muttered, but it seemed loud in the room of silent movies. “That’s a gun barrel, definitely a gun barrel! Anthea-”

“I’m on it,” she snapped back. There was a terse moment where everyone in the room seemed to be holding their breath and the only thing filling the silence was her frantic typing. A sharp inhale from his personal assistant had Mycroft pausing the video running on his own screen. “Sir,” she breathed out. Her voice held a surprising amount of concern as she replaced the images on Mycroft’s screen with the two videos of important.

One of John Watson. 

One of a seemingly innocent set of flats, presumably where the gun would appear. 

And there it was in the second story corner window. Mycroft leaned forward slightly, squinting at the barrel that slipped through the tinted window that had only been opened a few inches. The good doctor noticed it almost instantly, though to the untrained eye it seemed as though the pain in his thigh had simply flared causing him to stumble. Mycroft knew better. He knew John was simply using that time to study the gun pointed at him. 

“Do we have any more footage of the gun?” he asked. He scanned his memory, trying to identify it based on the grainy image in front of him. It was a long range sniper rifle of some kind. Why was the sniper using such a long range weapon for such a close shot? Was it all he (the slight shadow on the window hinted at a male) had on hand? 

“No,” she responded, now unnecessarily, “We’re lucky we even have that. That camera is supposed to be pointed at the crosswalk but it was malfunctioning.” 

New understanding flooded through Mycroft before Anthea had even started to reply. Never one for the dramatics of his little brother (who gasped and stumbled through realisations as any other would an orgasm), the only sign of his new found knowledge was a slight smile, barely a twitch of his lips. He resumed play of the video on his screen and watched as the barrel continued to follow the doctor’s movements until it was eventually withdrawn back.

“What about the flat? Anything on that?” Elliot asked, squinting at the image on his own screen. Mycroft wasn’t really listening, too focused on the screen in front of him (though later, he would still be able to tell you word for word the conversations that went on around him). 

With the gun withdrawn, the doctor resumed his way back home. Thought he kept a very subtle eye on the window by reflections in windows, he gave almost no sign he had noticed the threat at all. 

“The family was out of town. They reported a break in when they returned but nothing was stolen. In fact there was money left for the one thing that was broken, a cheap vase.”

“That seems a bit suspicious,” Eleri commented. “Why did they bother reporting it?” 

“The money was exact change for the sale price she’d paid for the vase the week before. She was worried they had some sort of stalker.”

As soon as the doctor was out of visual range of the apartment, a pale hand slipped out to rest on the windowsill, the fingers tapping out a seemingly random pattern. Mycroft inhaled a shape breath quietly. The movement lasted only a minute before the hand, too, was withdrawn but it had told Mycroft everything he needed to know.

And, though he sighed wearily at the dramatics and overcomplicated flare, the tiniest amount of relief flooded his chest. 

Now he just needed to find his errant little brother.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

With new information in hand, Mycroft set himself to do something he had not done in many, many years. He went for a walk. The park was old, but the grass was still as green and well cared for as it had been when he had been a boy. Teenager, really. Sherlock had been the one with boundless energy, bouncing about the house until Mummy had ordered him outside (and Mycroft with him to keep an eye on him).

He couldn’t be settled with just running around the park with the rest of the children like any other 5 year old. Not that Mycroft had ever really expected him to but it would have been nice to be able to just sit under the tree and read while his little brother wore himself out.

Instead, Mycroft had been reduced to... _playing._

Pirates, spies, cops and robbers. The games were the usual type but the rules far too complex for any of the other children to understand.

The hand signals had been developed for their spy game (something Mycroft was surprised Sherlock hadn’t long deleted).

_Captain Sherlock of the U.S.S. Schrodinger summons First Mate Mycroft to the pirate port at Mother’s park._

An interesting choice of ship name: a scientist who was known for his cat that was simultaneously dead and alive at the same time.

“Spare change, sir?” a teenager asked as he rattled a mostly empty cup.

Mycroft eyed him, taking in all the little details he needed and cross-referencing others he needed to draw his conclusions. The boy was far too young to be Sherlock, even his little brother wasn’t this good at disguising himself, but this was definitely one of Sherlock’s homeless network.

Because Mycroft knew that scarf.

It had been twenty-some years since Mycroft had last seen it wrapped around Sherlock’s neck, clean and well cared for but worn from use. It was faded and dirty now, the once deep crimson turned muddied brown, but Mycroft would recognise it anywhere. He had been the one to give it to Sherlock, after all.

“That is an interesting scarf,” the older man commented, reaching into the inside jacket of his coat for his wallet. It wasn’t often that he carried cash but he had expected something like this.

“Given to me by an old friend. He said you might know him,” the teen told him after pointedly shaking the cup that Mycroft had yet to put any money in.

“Where might I find this _old friend_?” A fifty pound note made its way from Mycroft’s wallet to the cracking plastic cup.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Several hours and nearly a thousand pounds later found Mycroft Holmes back in the park he'd initially started in. The boy was still there, sitting on a bench and holding his plastic cup (no longer containing the large note) out to any who passed him.

The elder Holmes moved to stand directly in front of him. As he glared at the young blond boy, he saw all the ways his _dear_ brother’s disguise had fallen short. Apparently not short enough, however, as he _had_ managed to fool Mycroft.

“Was the wild goose chase absolutely necessary?” he demanded.

“I dunno what you’re talking about, mister. I just told you what our old friend told me to.”

“Get in the car,” Mycroft drawled as a black car drove up behind him. Intent on keeping up the charade of the young blond boy, Sherlock bolted into the open door of the car with an almost fearful expression on his face, even going to far as to fidget nervously while he watched Mycroft take the seat across from him.

All pretenses dropped as soon as the door was closed.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock greeted in his own deep baritone rather than the higher pitch of the young boy, unraveling the dirty scarf from his neck and dumping it unceremoniously on the seat next to him.

"Do get out of those vile clothes, Sherlock," Mycroft answered, indicating a clean pile of clothes with a minute flicker of his eyes.

It spoke of how eager the younger Holmes was to get into clean clothes that he didn’t even put of a token protest against his brother. The tatty, thin jacket quickly joined the scarf. As did the trainers on his feet (he wore no socks). The hesitation to remove his shirt was minuscule, the tiniest flash of unease shot in Mycroft’s direction.

“I have seen you naked before, Sherlock,” Mycroft commented boredly, but alarm bells were ringing in his head. There was only one thing Sherlock would hide from him. “I did used to help Mummy _bathe_ you after all.”

As expected, Sherlock had ripped the shirt off with a glare at his older brother and replaced it with the clean one in the time it took to bat an eyelid. Mycroft couldn't help but frown.

There were no track marks on Sherlock's arms. No bruising, no injuries. Besides being (more than) a bit thin, there was nothing worth hiding. Certainly nothing _Sherlock_ , of all people, would deem so.

Mycroft severely disliked not knowing why.

"Why did you hesitate?"

Sherlock's scoff would have been believable if he hadn't crossed his arms over his chest and sunk back into the seat. A defensive posture as well as pulling away from what he interpreted as a threat.

"I didn't," Sherlock snapped, but his eyes flicked with a deeply buried sadness to the empty seat on his right.

"Ah."

Of course, the good doctor had taken it upon himself to see that Sherlock got around to eating. Mycroft had seen more than one recording of John yelling at his younger brother for skipping an unhealthy number of meals in a row. Sherlock had obviously grown accustomed to his concern.

The younger Holmes narrowed his eyes dangerously, not liking that Mycroft was about to pick it out. “What took you so long? I would have thought you’d be here days ago,” Sherlock answered. It was the tone he usually reserved for asking how Mycroft’s diet was going.

“Dr. Watson didn’t deem it necessary to inform us that he’d seen a sniper following him around,” Mycroft said, carefully watching his brother’s reaction. “Did it occurred to you, brother dear, that if the protection detail you specifically asked me to put on Doctor Watson had spotted you, they would have shot you?”

“They weren’t going to.”

“You cannot be certain of that!” Mycroft snapped. The annoyance flashed on his face for only a moment before he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and wiped it from his face and mind. He sighed tiredly, his little brother tended to have that effect on people.

“Yes, I can,” Sherlock replied with a smirk. “The blond one whose wife just left him was on duty that day-”

“Aled Brown,” Mycroft supplied.

“Useless. Deleted,” Sherlock informed him with dismissive wave of his hand. The elder Holmes’ lips pursed but he refrained (not for the first time) from pointing out that one day Sherlock would delete something he actually needed. “He was on the surveillance team you had on John and I when John first moved in. He’s been around John long enough to know where he subconsciously watches for danger and trusts that he will spot anything in those areas and react accordingly. John always checks the second story corner windows therefore your surveillance guy does not.”

"You've managed to maintain the premise of being dead for nearly six months. Why are you coming to me now?" Mycroft asked. He expected some kind of acerbic retort from his younger brother. Instead he was surprised (though it didn't show on his face) when Sherlock merely finished buttoning the clean pants before turning to gaze at the empty spot beside him once more.

"Moriarty's network is vast. I have to leave London. I’ve done all I can here,” Sherlock told him and Mycroft’s brain immediately began pulling up every unsolved and cold case that had passed his desk over the last six months. It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool him but if he was looking it would be much harder.

"And pointing the gun at John?"

"It wasn't loaded, the firing mechanism had been removed, and the barrel was packed with dirt," the younger man answer with confidence. And, of course, Mycroft understood what his brother wasn't saying (couldn't say, refused to say), _I would rather the gun blew up in my own face then risk injuring John _.__

“You’ve grown caution, brother mine,” the elder Holmes stated.

"It will remind him to keep an eye out for danger. He's started carrying his gun again, hasn't he?" Sherlock answered defensively. It was said with surety. The same surety an ordinary person would say, _The sun will rise tomorrow, won't it?_

And Mycroft had to admit, John had indeed begun to carry the browning.

"What do you need from me?"

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

It was only late that night sitting in front of the fireplace alone that Mycroft finally allowed the more than a trickle of relief to flood his chest. In his lap sat crimson scarf, clean now but still worn from age.

He had not even realized he wanted the scarf until he’d come home to find it sitting on his entryway table. It had been a pleasant surprise after he had ordered all the dirty clothes burned. This was no doubt the actions of his assistant (Eleanor, Sophia, Tabby, or whatever her name happened to be at the moment).

And, though he found himself grateful she had been able to predict his uncharacteristic attachment to a random article of clothing he’d given his brother nearly two decades ago, Mycroft realized he would need to remind her that he did not appreciate her spying on him.

With that thought in his head (and about a dozen others), he finished off the amber liquid in his tumbler and dragged himself to his feet. He barely noticed that he’d carried the scarf with him to his room and set it on a chair.

In fact, it was was only the next morning as he walked out the door that his housekeeper commented on his lovely new scarf that he realized the scarf hadn’t left his presence since he’d come home and found it.

It would seem he’d subconsciously associated the scarf with the reminder that Sherlock was still alive.

How ordinarily quaint.


End file.
